


Nearly Almost Best Friends

by Afgncaap



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: ... possibly sometimes literally, Gen, Soulmate AU, Toriel's Home for Trash Babies, living in an AU can't save you from timeline shenanigans, many characters not yet introduced, supernatural intrusive thoughts, they are all children don't expect legitimate romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 16:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5340662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afgncaap/pseuds/Afgncaap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long ago, two races ruled over Earth: HUMANS and MONSTERS. To this day, they are united in ultimate harmony both as a society and as individuals. For every human, there is a monster. In pairs, their souls are drawn together by unbreakable bonds of love, friendship, and family. However, when most other children have found their soulmates at a very young age, you still have not. You have never even known the pull of another soul, only the emptiness that aches within your own. When one day you do find someone to be your very best friend, another lonely being without a soulmate to love, things fall almost perfectly into place. Except ... something's still missing, something very important. But what? Whatever it is, you are determined to find it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Refuse (Prologue)

My monster has fallen. It is only a matter of time before their dying body and soul crumble into dust, only a matter of time before my soul fractures alongside. I am but a child, as my striped sweater clearly shows; I am not ready to die. I refuse.

My monster has always been my weakness. Their empathy smothers my every impulse; their compassion stays my hand in the worst sort of mercy. And now, now their weakness is to bring me to my very demise, when I have hardly begun to live my life, when I still am strong enough to persevere? What a despicable burden. The thought of them brings acid to my tongue, irrevocably sweetened by the hollow obligatory love with which my soul is tainted. LOVE is my true desire, the _real_ way to be strong, and I know just where to start.

My monster cannot stop me now, unconscious as they are. They cannot take away the knife that gleams beautifully at my side They cannot force me to turn my bike away and return to the prison that our guardians call a home. They cannot smother the cruel fascination and excitement that pulses in my mind as I think through my plans for the night.

Dusty old pavement gives way to dirt and gravel. The harsh vibrations of my bike have apparently jostled my cargo into wakefulness, for I hear a small whimper that, as I ignore it, rises into a series of jittery bleating cries. I feel myself smirk and decide to deliberately deepen the expression into something terrifying.

It is with this face that I glare upon the bundle. I am met with a small pair of sideways slitted eyes that promptly burst into a flood of tears. Disgusted, I scowl and brake sharply, letting the kid fly out of the basket at the front of my bike. The undisguised cry of fear he lets out brings my usual cheery grin back to life.

Whistling a playful tune, I dismount and carelessly toss my ride to the ground. Surely I’m far enough from civilization by now. Savoring the whimpers of my captive, I saunter over to where he has fallen.

The bleats have shifted now into a fervent cry of “Mama, mama!” How pathetic. I do not deign to mock him with the fact that she cannot hear and that he shall never be held by her again. I doubt his little mind, only months old, could even accept such a reality.

I laugh when I realize that the kid isn’t even hurt. He’s landed harmlessly in a bed of soft golden flowers, not even a cut or bruise upon him. Yet he cries and cries and cries without cease, begging now directed to me! “Please,” he begins to whimper. “Stop! I wanna go home!” he yells. How insolent, how weak, how _irritating_. I think it’s about time that I resolve this dilemma.

Darting forward, I kneel before the babe and brace them against the ground with one hand. The other reaches for the large kitchen knife that dangles from a belt loop. The blade has been dulled by years of use, but is more than enough for my forceful arm to utilize.

The child goes silent at the sight of the gleaming weapon. Or perhaps it is the malice gleaming from within my crimson eyes? Unabated tears stream down the furry visage. I wipe them from his left cheek. He cries out sharply with a wince. Oops, maybe I shouldn’t have used the blade on his face like that. But it leaves such a pretty gash; sparkling silver dust trickles heavily down his chin.

At that sight, I can resist no longer. Besides, there is no reason to drag this out any further. I pull back dramatically and attack, thrusting the blade up into his stomach and deep beneath his ribs, shredding whatever hollow mockery of proper organs may be found in his chest cavity. Shimmering dust spills out and onto my hands, my shirt, my pants, my hair. It’s beautiful and everywhere and I breathe it in, how sweet it smells! The child tries to utter one final scream of agony and terror, but his open maw releases only silence as he gasps.

***You earned 1 XP and 0 gold.**

That’s all I get for winning against a helpless infant, apparently, but it’s a start. Within seconds, the body has entirely collapsed into a tiny pile upon the flowers. The sight brings me gleeful satisfaction, but what truly has my grin widening into something horrible is the sight as from the ashes rises the ultimate prize - a glowing heart of pure white magical power. It sheds a few final grains of dust as it starts to flicker and fade. Wasting no more time, I reach out to the soul.

In a flash, the heart disappears at my fingertip. I feel its essence shoot up my arm and into my chest where I now feel a swell of raw strength. Yes, this is exactly what I wanted, what I needed! Now I can reach inside myself, to the very deepest layer, and …

With a choking gasp, I use the magic to force my soul from my body. It glows a beautiful, bright red, mirrored in my eyes. I take it in my hands, ever so gently, and squeeze it until it shatters. The resulting show of light is blinding, but I can still see through squinted eyes the way the fragments scatter and dissipate. I feel suddenly hollow, but greatly lightened, and know for a fact that there is yet another fresh pile of grey residue many miles away where my soulmate lied still only moments before. The threat has been eliminated.

I leave the scene just a little too quickly to see the dying pieces of my soul burst out of existence, too quickly to see the strange essence they release and that is instantly drawn into a nearby buttercup, its crown covered in smooth dust that then vanishes. Something strange opens its eyes for the very first time.

Beyond the range of my ears, far beyond the hearing of anyone at all, a pitiful voice cries out for help. It calls for a mother, for a father, for friends and family, for strangers, for enemies, for anyone. It screams and wails for hours; it whimpers for days. For months, it gives the occasional plea. For years it waits in silent solitude.

Nobody came.

 


	2. Your Very Best Friend

Somewhere between the end of your daily lessons and before suppertime you find yourself yet again out walking for some fresh air. You wish that you could say that the promenade was just for the sake of your own enjoyment, but truthfully its purpose is to allow the raging fires within you to burn out harmlessly. Today has been extremely frustrating, everybody saying just the right things to irritate you and your work asking just the right problems to stump you, and some terrible, wicked part of you screams that you must lash out violently. Normally, the delicate compassion of a human’s monster helps them to quell such wicked feelings, but you have no such luxury. All that you feel inside is the hollow ache of your lonely soul.

Wanting anything but to hurt someone, you excused yourself and left the building. Nobody questioned this, they all knew why, and the thought still wracks you with bitter shame. This is just one of many times that it becomes obvious just how defective you are. What’s odd is that the violent impulses, the anger, the bitterness … it always seems to be coming from somewhere else. Some _one_ else. But after years and years of everyone insisting that such a thing is impossible, you’ve come to believe that it’s just your imagination. Probably just your subconscious trying to find a way to escape responsibility for your horrible, sinful thoughts.

You realize that you have been running instead of walking for several minutes now. The sight of your home has long since left you and the road you tread has become more of a rough foot path. Empty fields of wild grasses and flowers surround you. Panting heavily, you let yourself collapse to the ground alongside the trail.

The dry plants crunch underneath you almost like snow and support you just about as softly. You stare into the clear skies and breathe deeply of the earth and foliage. Something about the simplicity of it all manages to sap away your anger like candle wax up a burning wick, dissipating it entirely. In the place of frustration, the environs fill you with determination. For what exactly, you are not entirely sure, but you feel like you have a purpose here.

You savor the feeling for perhaps longer than necessary. By the time you rise again, the sun teeters concerningly close to the horizon. Your (foster) mother will no doubt be upset with worry if you do not return soon. Luckily, you always carry a cell phone in your pocket for this very sort of situation. It’s chunky and outdated, but functionality has always been more important to you anyway. At least it can send messages.

_“Going to be late for dinner, sorry”_ you text her. It is tempting to use phonemic shorthand, but as your teacher and foster guardian, Toriel typically disapproves of such lazy typing. You suspect, however, that she might just have trouble sometimes understanding the substitutions and acronyms and doesn’t want to admit it.

_“Thank you for telling me. Are you alright, my child? Do you need me to come get you?”_ she replies after a few minutes.

_“I’m okay, I just went out a bit further than usual, but I know the way home.”_

The next response is faster, but still somewhat delayed - probably because of her typing difficulties. _“Very well. Let me know if you change your mind, dear. I will make sure to save you some pie.”_ Your stomach grumbles appreciatively at the thought. Another notification dings, _“These lands are not as safe as they once were. Promise me that you will return by nightfall.”_

_“I promise,”_ you reply without pause. You feel a little guilty for taking her so lightly, but mostly you just want to end the conversation. Goat caretaker appeased, you tuck your phone back amongst the small horde of things within your pockets. Ever since you learned of their existence, you’ve taken to always wearing cargo pants so that you can stuff them full of, well, whatever really. Each pocket is a rich mine of candy, toys, utensils, fake snow, hot dogs, tools, pencils, and practically anything else imaginably pocket-sized. Others call it hoarding; you consider it to be preparedness.

Hoping to appease your somewhat neglected tummy, you fish out a home-made snickerdoodle from the depths as you begin your brisk walk home. You nibble the edge of it slowly, hoping to make the treat last, but accidentally take a rather large bite as you feel a sharp pain on your exposed lower leg.

You look down to see that, much like the cookie, you have been bitten into. The wound hardly bleeds, the force behind it being too weak, but it does look distinctively like your leg was attacked by an angry mouth. Glancing around nervously, you see no wild animal that could’ve caused it.

“Down here,” a small yet cruelly bitter voice calls. Your heard turns sharply toward the source … it appears to be a large yellow flower _with a face._ He glares at you savagely, baring sharp teeth in your direction.

“Give me the cookie and _maybe_ I’ll let you keep your leg!” he demands threateningly, baring his teeth as if to attack again. You stare at the plant silently, giving a thoughtful glance to your cookie, and calmly step back two paces. The distance is plenty to put you out of the little thing’s reach.

You have never seen a look more furious, “Oh yeah, you think you’re so smart?!” The flower puffs up before spitting out a barrage of sharp seeds. You dodge all but one and, surprisingly, it leaves a decent gash across your cheek that stings with traces of aggressive magic.

Deep inside your chest, you feel your soul twitch with unfamiliar sensation. While you could still flee the situation with ease, for some reason it doesn’t want you to go. Besides, the flower really seems to want that cookie significantly more than you do … Holding up your hands placatingly, hopefully a clear sign of surrender, you kneel in the dirt beside the plant.

“Hah! I knew you were a weak, cowardly thing. It is only proper that beings such as you submit to one such as I. Now hand it over!” Were you more prideful, you might object to the plant’s assumptions, but instead you gently offer the snack to the creature. With surprising speed, he snaps forward to wrench it from your grasp and tilts his head back to devour the remaining portion of the cookie in one gulp. You are surprised that he can actually eat and wonder if perhaps he needs to. How hungry might the poor thing be?

At that thought, you begin to realize just how precious he looks. There’s just something about him that makes you want to scoop him up and cherish him forever. You want to bring him happiness, you want to protect him, you want to embrace him. Instead, you ask a simple question.

Point, tap-tap, shrug, _“What’s your name?”_ you sign. He looks up at you with a remarkably shocked expression, for a flower at least. Somehow, you get the impression that he didn’t expect you to ask.

He pauses for a long time as if in deep thought before muttering, “I’m … You can call me Flowey if you must, human.” The ridiculously cute name brings a smile to your typically stoic face. In turn, the creature scowls, his visage horrifically warped, “You think my name’s funny, do you?”

You pinch the air “No” and shake your head in fervent negation, “I just … do you want to come with me?” The question slips tumbles through your hands before it ever passes through your brain. Both of you are stupefied with surprise for several seconds. You scramble to bring reason to the wild suggestion, “I mean, because, well, there’s a lot more food at home and someone as importa-“ your hands fumble desperately into a different sign, “-scary as you would surely want to take advantage of that.” That sentence made sense, right?

Flowey regards you with suspicion, but you can tell that the offer tempts him greatly. “How will you even do that?” he questions, “That is, assuming that I even agree, which I haven’t!”

Not a moment passes before you stand up and begin raiding your many pockets. Fortunately, you know exactly where to find what you need. First, you grab a band-aid (unused) from your left middle pocket and quickly apply it to your wounded cheek. Flowey raises a condescending eyebrow at this less than helpful action - for him at least - but says nothing. Then, in your bottom right pocket, you fish out a folded up piece of rubbery plastic.

“Oh yeah, real helpful,” the flower criticizes scathingly. Ignoring him, you proceed to unfold the item into the shape of a conveniently sized porta-bowl, as a friend of yours might refer to it. The container is a little on the small side, but still you place it on the ground with the intent to make use of it. You can see him wilt with embarrassment, the expression odd on the face of a flower, but you kindly pretend not to notice.

You place your hands on the ground to the sides of where he is rooted down and give him a serious look, nonverbally asking for a go-ahead. With a small shudder of what you realize is fear, he nods his consent.

Ever so carefully and tenderly, you dig down into the dirt around him, carving out a circular ditch. The dirt is surprisingly dry and inhospitable and you are surprisingly sad to see it, the distress particularly close to your heart. As you work, tiny roots writhe and shrink away from the air as they are exposed; you hear Flowey gasp at the sensation. You hope that he will let you know if you begin to hurt him.

Since he does not give any objections, you continue to work your way down and around him. With one final, careful motion, you lift him up from the soil. Again he gasps, holding back a whimper, and you can feel him tremble. For you as well, fear threatens to betray your otherwise steady hands during the transfer, but you are regardless successful. Within seconds, agonizing as they are, he sits safely in the little bowl that you have provided.

Tension spills away like water from a broken dam. With a fraction of a smile, you gather more handfuls of dirt to pack in around the edges of the dish. He remains silent as you procure a mostly empty water container and let what little remains trickle over his roots. You see the way he perks up a little straighter, however, and that brings remarkable peace to your soul.

“Gosh golly, I’ve never had such an unsatisfactory drink in my life!” he complains, but it is half-hearted at best. The corners of your eyes crinkle slightly at the warm fondness this sparks within you. You feel somewhat like you’ve just met an old friend for the very first time.

The sun has fallen even further down to the horizon during your ministrations. You gather what is now your new best friend, wether he likes it or not, into your arms and push yourself up to your feet. Walking as fast as you can without violently jostling the plant - not that he doesn’t complain about being uncomfortably held regardless - you set off back down the path. His ceaseless negativity fades into a somehow pleasant drone that lasts for the entire trip back. You even almost forget that night-time is supposed to make you feel afraid.

 


	3. Home

_The Genocide,_ they call it. You go out in the night, you die. For years that has been the truth. Even now, careless fools and unbelievers go out when it is not safe. Dust and corpses result without fail. Such a plague could not be the acts of a person, not a monster, not even a creature. Surely no _thing_ could do this - it is simply a force of nature that now haunts from the emptiest reaches of the countryside to the densest, dankest alleyways of the cities.

You are careless, yes, but not stupid. The very slimmest edge of the sun peeks out into the sky; you forcefully avert your gaze. Your fear has caught up with you all at once, it seems. Everything’s fine, though, you’ve made it just in time, but still this … this is a predicament.

You stand outside the door of a misleadingly humble looking house, one whose insides are far more spacious and well furnished than most. Still, it manages to be cozy and welcoming. This contradictory nature is not the cause of the problem you face, however. No, it is only the towering front door of the home that torments you.

Shifting lightly on your feet, you consider your options. You cannot exactly call out for someone’s attention, given that sign language is a very quiet form of speech. Besides, you couldn’t even gesture to the inanimate door, given that your hands are currently quite occupied. The plant cradled carefully in your arms seems to have fallen asleep. You dare not place it on the ground for its container is less than sturdy and for the same reason you refuse to hold it with any less than both hands. Kicking at the door has little chance of success with a high chance of increasing the trouble you’re going to be in and the doorbell is too high up for you to press it with your elbow.

Defeated, you are desperate enough to nudge Flowey out of his little nap. An idea blossoms in your mind; you reach your head down and give the top of his face an exaggeratedly loud kiss. You may not have a voice, but anyone can smack their lips nice and loud!

This seems to rouse him; his leaves and petals shift and reach in a sort of a wakeful stretch. Based upon the strange sort of blush that graces his visage, you assume that he knows just what you did. He is flustered enough that he only manages to glare at you a little bit, “I don’t see any food yet, so I’m assuming that you want something from me, huh?”

You nod with a placating smile, somewhat forced through your distress, and gesture with your chin at the doorbell. As he turns to follow your gaze, you lift him closer to the button. He seems to get the point and with an irritated sigh, he aggressively headbutts the button. You giggle silently, having expected him to simply press it with a leaf or something.

Once again bracing him safely against your chest, you stand back and wait for the door to open. It is only seconds before it cracks ajar and releases a beam of warm light, almost blinding, into the twilight air. You had not realized how dark it has become until this moment.

Toriel pulls you inside like a triggered spring trap and gathers you in her arms, giving the door a slam. “Thank goodness. Frisk, darling, you’re finally back! What happened to your face? Where were you for so long?!“ you wriggle out of her grip to protect Flowey from being crushed.

“Oh, what a lovely flower!” your mother exclaims in a loud whisper. She changes the subject just a little too quickly for your liking - now you can be sure that you’re in for it later. Only a brutally serious scolding need be put off like that; she always likes to wait until she has a chance to calm down before starting anything. Mother Toriel _never_ yells; you’ll never stop loving how safe you feel here, even when her reprimands have you in guilty tears.

A large, fuzzy paw finds your back and ushers you into the next room. “Go take a seat at the table and I’ll get you your supper. Be quiet though, dear; the others have already gone to bed.” She seems to be too distracted to notice the fact that the flower has a face - a disagreeably scowling one at that. Oh well.

You quickly comply to her request; the corner of your mouth twitches upwards into a slight grin. You do so love your mother. Even the fact that she is certainly going to be cross with you later cannot hamper down your immediate joy upon seeing her. Plopping down at your corner of the large dining table, you sit and wait with your hands still firmly clasping your new friend. He, however, is oddly silent. Pensive, even.

You nudge him and give him an inquiring look, hands still too occupied to properly communicate. _“What’s wrong?”_ your eyes clearly ask.

Flowey shifts his gaze about the room at random, anywhere but you. “I … I don’t … she … I don’t wanna talk about it,” he spits the last sentence suddenly, face closing off into a forcefully neutral expression. You sigh in frustration, only wishing to help, but readily accept his secrecy. For now.

Soft padding on the hardwood floor announces your mother’s return. For a goat woman, she is very light and quiet on her feet. Even more so than humans, you find. You turn to see that her arms are burdened with an overflowing dinner tray and a large glass of ice water.

As she places them before you, you dare to take one hand off of your friend so that you can tug on her sleeve. It only takes a quick gesture at his flimsy container for her eyes to shift in understanding. “Ah, yes, I’ll be right back.”

You expect her to return with a larger and sturdier bowl, something solid. Instead, she returns with the most beautiful flowerpot you’ve ever seen, though it is remarkably dusty. Just regular dust, of course; she wipes most of it away with her paw. Seeing as the dinner table already has some dirt on it thanks to you, she sees no loss in placing the dirty pot beside Flowey. You want to trace your fingers over the ornate engravings of brightly painted vines and flowers.

As you hold him steady, Toriel reaches towards the delicate flower in order to help you transfer him. Flowey jerks away from her violently, letting out an unearthly hiss. You are somewhat startled by his reaction, but your mother is absolutely shocked. She pulls back her paws as if burned, though truly she is used to the feeling of fire.

For just a moment, he glances in your direction. You expect to find fear in his dark eyes but instead there it … sadness? Doubt? No no, there it is, you can still see very real terror hidden in the melange. What about Toriel could evoke such an intense reaction? He visibly forces himself to relax, but you can still see the tension in his stem and the slight twitching of his leaves. Still, he does not speak. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to anyone but you.

You toss the musings aside with a shake of your head and look to Toriel with a reassuring smile. She too forces herself to calm down and is significantly more successful. “My word; what a … unique flower you’ve found.” With an almost professional air, she pushes aside any concerns and makes another repotting attempt.

With an air much like that of a small child bravely enduring a vaccination, Flowey allows her to proceed. You find it kind of adorable, to be honest, and the sight of him in a proper pot has you grinning. There is still space that needs to be filled with more soil and his leaves shake like, well, leaves, but he still looks a far sight more comfortable in the solid and sturdy container. You relinquish your death grip on the flimsy little bowl, now empty and useless.

Thoughtlessly, you reach down to wipe your dirty hands on your equally filthy shorts. Toriel coughs behind you; your actions instantly still at the sound. Rolling your eyes, just a little, you hop down from your seat at the table and go to properly wash your hands.

You keep an eye on the others from the kitchen. Flowey is blatantly pretending that Toriel doesn’t exist whereas she instead stares at him intently. Your hands are hastily washed and only partially dried when you give in to the desire to rush over and devour the cooling meal. Admittedly, you do also rush with a desire to put an end to the scene in the other room.

Just as you re-enter the dining room, your mother lets out a thoughtful hum before leaving the room. Mostly ignoring her departure, you throw yourself into your seat. The indulgently thick and creamy soup full of vegetables and meats is still at a perfect temperature, probably thanks to some fire magic on the sly. Wasting no time, you tear a sizable chunk from the slice of fresh bread that you find beside the bowl and dunk it into the soup. Once withdrawn, the hearty mouthful drips and steams so very tantalizingly. You offer it to Flowey without a moment’s hesitation.

Your timing is perfect enough to catch him in the inhale that would surely precede a series of loud complaints and threats. He freezes like that, surprise thinly veiled; apparently he didn’t expect you to follow through with your promises of food so readily. You expect him to shrug it off and accept the morsel, but instead he backs away and stares in distressed confusion. “W-why are you being so nice to me?” he whispers, almost inaudibly, “I don’t understand, I can’t …”

You start to frown deeply in concern, but decide against it. Instead, you wind up your brightest smile - both corners of your mouth tick upwards and your eyes even open a fraction wider - and pop your free hand up with a simple sign - one of your favorites. Your fingers stretch open all the way except for the middle and ring fingers, which remain tucked inwards. _“Love you!”_

Without giving him a chance to respond, you shove the food into his mouth. You see the stars in his eyes. So enraptured by your mother’s unbeatable culinary skills is he that his previous confusion is completely dissipated. The conflict will certainly resurface in the future, but for now you just want to enjoy your supper.

You portion out a bite for yourself - the sensation never ceases to delight you - and then another for Flowey, and then another for yourself, and so on. Luckily, Toriel dishes out excessively generous portions, so there’s plenty for the two of you ravenous beasts. As he eagerly gobbles up your entire slice of pie - he seems to find the snail filling much tastier than you do, so you give into his half-hearted threatening demands - you find yourself wondering just where the food he eats goes. Must be a monster thing, kind of like your skeleton friend.

The meal as a whole passes cheerfully in companionable silence … with the exception of the sound of the flower’s obnoxious chewing. Still, sharing a delicious meal with your new best friend like this; it fills you with determination. For what exactly, you are not entirely sure, but you feel like there is still something _missing._

 

**Author's Note:**

> The good news is, I actually have a mostly fleshed out plot for this story, unlike pretty much everything else I've ever started. The bad news is, my life is still a wreck at least half of the time. I do have every intention of continuing this but I would not expect consistency if I were you. Sorry 'bout that.  
> (Still, gotta love writing about my imaginary friends being ultra friendly to each other ... okay so I might feel a little lonely sometimes.)


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